


Love in the Shadows

by KanarandTarkaleanTea



Series: 69 Love Stories [1]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Gen, M/M, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-11
Updated: 2013-06-11
Packaged: 2017-12-14 14:55:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/838164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KanarandTarkaleanTea/pseuds/KanarandTarkaleanTea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stories inspired by the Magentic Fields' album(s) 69 Love Songs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love in the Shadows

**Author's Note:**

> No copyright infringement intended upon either the Star Trek franchise or the Magnetic Fields. Just for a bit of fun.
> 
> As a hopeless romantic, I always want to delve deeply into a character and build up the “why” of how characters fall in love. It makes for cumbersome writing. As a personal challenge, I am trying to write more succinctly, and am using the “69 Love Songs” as inspirations for brief prose. Not sure if I will able to maintain the idea, but these are all supposed to be one-scene shots just written for fun and practise.
> 
>  
> 
> These little vignettes do not follow one specific timeline.

The room was dark and smoky. Even with genetically enhanced eyes, Bashir had to squint to see his companion.

“What is this place?”

He heard rather than saw Garak’s world-weary smile. “It’s neutral ground, doctor. If you choose to foray into the world of espionage, you will need to know the locations where you are safe. Or at least, as close to safe as you can ever be.”

It was a week after he had told Garak about the offer Section 31 had made to him about joining their shadow organization. He hadn’t been sure how the Cardassian would react to the information, but just as always, the tailor had donned a benign smile and plied him with witty/slightly scathing repartee.

_“My dear doctor, you must be so pleased that you will finally get to live out your spy fantasies. You are starting quite late, though. Most spies would have been groomed for such a position at a far earlier age. Though I am but a humble tailor, perhaps I can offer you some information that you may find helpful in your pursuits.”_

And so, at Garak’s request, Bashir had asked Sisko for a shuttle craft and they had departed on their mysterious errand. The only hint that the Cardassian would give him as to their purpose was that he would “show him the implications of being a spy.”

“Does it have to be so smoky?” Bashir complained as they took a seat in a corner. The whole place consisted of corners: walls at sharp angles and odd nooks and crannies. Every table was set off from the others and all chairs were backed to the walls. 

“My apologies, but these clubs don’t have non-smoking sections. In fact, the habit is encouraged. It provides a nice bit of cover — helps obscure faces, you understand.” He extended a box of Tirellian cheroots to the doctor. “Care for one?”

The human wrinkled his nose. “No, thank you.”

Garak shrugged and replaced the pack in his tunic without taking one himself. “I don’t care for them, either. Of course, if you plan to pursue your career in Section 31, you’ll have to acquire a taste. While I find it a bit cliché, I cannot tell you how many contacts are made over the seemingly innocuous offer of a smoke.”

Bashir looked around. As his eyes adjusted slightly, he could see figures seated at the bar, there was a Romulan and a Bolian dancing slowly to the band that played on a small dais in the center of the room, other couples ducked in and out of doors at the back of the club.

Garak stood. “I’m going to get something to drink. Care for anything? Romulan ale, perhaps?”

“Sure.”

He watched as the Cardassian made his way to the bar, stopping several times to exchange a few words with people.

“I’ve never seen you here before.”

Bashir jumped at the quiet female voice at his shoulder, turning quickly to see a Wraythian woman. He was struck immediately by her beauty, but the coldness in her eyes made his skin crawl. “It’s my first time,” he said, and was embarrassed by how his voice sounded thin and nervous.

“Oh. A guest of Garak’s?”

“Yes.”

“Shame. He never likes to share.”

The Cardassian had quickly made his way back to the table and he spoke quietly as he sat down. “Well, it appears as though you’ve already made a friend, doctor.” Garak gave Bashir his drink, but his hand paused for a brief second as the woman turned to him

“Prilla, I didn’t recognize you,” he said to the woman in as amiable of a tone as ever, but from long association, the doctor could hear the menace in his voice and noted the way his friend’s posture straightened so that he seemed to tower over them.

The woman tilted her head coyly. “That’s sort of the idea, isn’t it?”

Garak looked at her sharply. “I’m just introducing this young man around. He’s considering becoming an agent.”

The woman sized Bashir up and chuckled lightly. “You don’t say.”

Garak nodded. “Indeed,” he said and took a sip of his drink, never taking his gaze from her.

The woman turned to look in the doctor's eyes, and he watched as her pupils grew large — large enough to swallow him whole. Suddenly his mind was assaulted with horrific images in rapid fire succession. The corpse of a woman folded in half backwards. A child’s toy covered in blood. An old man asphyxiated in bed by long fingered hands. Bashir looked away quickly and took deep breaths to keep from being sick.

The woman scooted back in her chair, laughing. “Sorry child, but I don’t think you’re cut out for this line of work. You’re pretty enough that you could probably infiltrate, but you don’t have the stomach. Maybe you should consider becoming a prossy. The money can be just as good.” She left them and her mirthless laughter followed her back into the darkness.

“Are you alright, doctor?” Garak’s voice was gentle and he placed a steadying hand on Bashir’s shoulder.

Bashir looked up with watering eyes. “Who was she, Garak?”

“She is one of the lovely people you would have to contend with if you were to become an agent. All of these people would be what passes for friends if you entered this world. But only friends here — as soon as you left these doors, you would once again be fair game. As for Prilla specifically, she’s the closest thing there is to evil there is, and blood follows in her wake. She has no allegiance or cause. In Worf’s words “she has no honor.” She kills for the highest bidder, and sometimes just for her own amusement. And I’d like to make a suggestion: If you ever see those eyes, and you’re not in this club — run, doctor.” He pushed the whiskey into Bashir’s hand. “Drink. You’ll feel better.”

The young man did as he was told, and did feel some better. “You know everyone here?”

Garak shrugged. “Some of them I’ve known since I was quite young. This is one of the few places in the quadrant where we could meet and not have to worry if we were going to kill each other. That man over there,” he said tilting his head in the direction of a Bentonin. “Practically every part of his body has been replaced with a synthetic. He used to take his nose off after he’d had too much to drink. He has been officially pronounced dead seven times. Tain ordered me to kill him once. He and I played Kotra a week after his threat to my mission was neutralized. That Romulan woman on the dance floor? She is a master of Par-shen strategy in the Tal Shiar. She and I were both assigned the same target once. She attempted to poison me to prevent me from getting to the target first. Two months later, we were intimate in one of the back rooms here.”

Bashir felt Garak’s fingertips trace his brow, linger as they traveled down his cheek and then tilt his chin up. Gazing into the tailor’s eyes, he was surprised to see naked emotion there; desperation, longing, and fear. “In this line of work, doctor, the line between friends and enemies is blurred… if a line exists at all. It is a difficult existence; a life that strips away beauty and innocence and replaces them with hopelessness and regret. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. Especially not you.” He removed his fingers from the doctor’s face and looked away, the glass in his hand shaking. Bashir shivered as the air of the club touched the vacated patch of skin. He looked into his drink, lost in thought.

Finally resolved, he finished his whiskey and entwined his finger’s with his friend’s. “Garak, let’s go home."


End file.
